Chapter Text
It had been almost a month since you'd last heard from Jason.
You had not received a single message. Not from his nor from any unknown number, and not a single call from one of his thousand burner phones.
You shouldn't be surprised, really. You should have seen this coming, and that made the pressure in your chest feel even heavier.
Sitting in your drafty apartment, with the stale scent of burnt coffee lingering in the air, your eyes drifted over the same page of the book in your lap for what felt like the hundredth time. You weren’t taking in any of it. Your mind kept wandering back to him, and you had already lost count of the times you'd restarted the paragraph. He’s already read this one, you thought.
He was not dead—at the very least, of that you were positive—you had asked Dick (in a totally not mildly desperate phone call), and he had reassured you that if something had happened to Red Hood, they'd for sure know. He had explained that it most likely was one of his usual 'no contact' episodes. That Jason tended to close off and completely distance himself from everyone when his headspace got too dark or an operation got too dangerous.
You had tried to convince yourself you could deal with that. Dick's explanation had been very vague; probably because he didn't want you even more involved in their vigilante business, but the worry still lingered.
It seemed like a lifetime ago that night when he saved you from that alleyway mugging. It built gradually from that moment; another chance encounter, then he showed up again on your way home, and the first time at your place he took off his mask you knew you were done for. Not even Jason himself knew why he let it happen, or more like actively made it happen.
Maybe his loneliness had been simmering for too long, and he needed an out for his tension. He knew you were lonely too; cold family, few friends, not really living in an easy situation; so it had been all too easy to let the conversations run at night—cursing your families, your pasts, your circumstances, the city that made it all happen...—and then let the touches linger, the clothes come off, and the nights stretch.
At some point you had started looking forward to those nights. Not just because of the attraction and physical aspect—though yeah, obviously—but because in a way they took some weight off your chest like nothing else did. You could talk quietly for hours, discussing everything and anything, laugh at each other's dry remarks and crass jokes, and inevitably fall into each other. It became the perfect excuse to finally let his guard down enough to end up asleep beside you most nights.
Not one of his finest moments, Jason could admit that much. But did he not have the right to this, even if it was a little bit fucked up? To spend time with a person who would not judge him, that could accept his fucked up way of living and not ask for more than he could give of himself?
Now you were questioning if it was all finally over. If he had decided that he was too tired to deal with your problems just to get a night over...
It hurt, honestly, and although it was bound to happen at some point, it felt like another confirmation that you weren't enough for Jason—or anyone—to want to stay with you for the long run. As stupid as that sounded, your mind kept feeding it to you.
At some point into the night, you had given up completely in the book. You were dozing off on your couch when your phone, abandoned beside your head, lit up with a notification. Half asleep, you squinted your eyes against the light...
Jason.
The lockscreen displayed a single, brief text: Fire escape.
Before you could even process the words, a faint, rhythmic tap sounded against the glass of your living room window.
You immediately stumbled off the couch, and despite yourself, your heart was already beating harder. It was the suddenness of it, probably some misplaced adrenaline, and relief.
You met his eyes through the glass, and quickly opened the window. The cold air slipped in alongside Jason. The dampness of the air outside seemed to cling to him. He looked like his usual self, black shirt, black jeans, black boots and a heavy leather jacket. Since he first revealed himself to you, he never appeared before you again as Red Hood, it was just Jason.
His boots landed on the wood flooring with a dull thud. He didn't touch you. Didn't offer a half-cocked smirk or a dry joke to soften the blow of a month's silence. He just stood near the radiator, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his posture rigid.
You didn't know how to read his expression.
“You shouldn't have called Dick,” Jason said, his voice low and gravelly, and stripped of any warmth. “He has enough to worry about without you dragging him into this.”
What...
A cold spike of disbelief hit your chest, instantly killing the remaining haze of sleep. “That's seriously the first thing you say to me? After a month of nothing?”
“I told you from the start how this works,” he replied flatly, refusing to meet your eyes. He looked around your cramped living room, treating the familiar space like a stranger's home. “I come and go. I don't do check-ins. I came tonight to tell you to stop digging. We're done here.”
The words hit like a slap, but the sheer coldness with which he said it hurt worse. “We're done? Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Jason finally looked at you, his green eyes dull, but he already looked somewhat defensive. “It was a bad idea to let this go on as long as it did. I got reckless, you got comfortable. And something's going on I'm dealing with.”
“What's going on?” You muttered back.
“Business.” He replied dryly. “It doesn't matter. I'm tying up loose ends before things get messy.”
"Oh and I'm a loose end?" You let out an incredulous, humorless laugh, feeling the sting in your eyes from tears about to build up. "So you get to cut me off once you've gotten enough?"
"Don't do that," he snapped, his hands fisting at his sides. "You knew who I was. You knew what you were getting into."
"I knew it was something complicated!" you huffed, averting your gaze for a moment in an attempt to gather your thoughts. "Doesn't mean you get to treat me like this!"
"I'm trying to protect you!" Jason raised his voice, his hands ripping out of his pockets, fists clenched so tight his knuckles whitened.
"By suddenly acting like I don't exist?! Do you expect me to be grateful?" You could only match his tone. You couldn't think of reacting in a more level way while your chest felt this tight.
"I expect you to accept it." He retorted, like it was that easy. "We can't keep doing this, it could get dangerous for you—"
"And do you not care?" You cut him off, and you dreaded as much as you needed his answer to that. "Did you not care...? About how I'd feel? After everything we've—had together."
He took a step back, his jaw working as he tried—and failed—to drag his walls back up. He shoved a hand through his hair, tugging at the dark strands in a sudden, sharp gesture of frustration.
"Of course I care," he spat out, though the bite in his voice was directed entirely at himself. "God, that's the whole fucking problem! Do you really think this was easy for me? That I just walked away and didn't think twice?"
You stared at him, your throat tight, refusing to let the fresh wave of tears fall. "Well, you sure made it seem like it was, Jason."
He took a jerky step forward, the width of his shoulders crowding you as the space between you collapsed. He reached out, his big, calloused hands seizing your forearms—not to hurt you, but with a frantic, impulsive grip of a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. “Look—this shit’s been eating me alive. I’m doing this for you!”
“Stop using that fucking excuse!” You yanked your arms back from him, immediately taking a step back.
“It’s not a fucking excuse! I’m doing this because I love you, goddamnit!”
The words slipped out like a confession, raw and bleeding. The silence that followed was deafening.
You froze, your breath hitching in your throat as you stared at him.
Jason let out a shaky exhale, his eyes brimming with a wet, heavy sorrow that he was failing to conceal. “I love you. And it scares the absolute shit out of me. Because the moment I let myself have this—the moment I let myself have you—I’m painting a target on your back.“
He swallowed hard, shaking his head slowly as he took a step backward, retreating toward the open window.
"I've died once already," he murmured, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the wind blowing into the apartment. "I know what it feels like. And I’d rather you hate me for the rest of your life than ever have to watch you go through it."
"Jay, please, wait—!" you started, taking a step toward him, your heart hammering against your ribs.
But he was already stepping back out onto the fire escape. He looked at you one last time, heartbreak written all over his face.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I love you too much to let you die for it."
Before you could rush out, he was gone, swallowed up by the cold Gotham night, leaving you standing alone in the quiet of your living room.